


Interlude

by sussexbound (SamanthaLenore)



Series: The Homecoming [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Communication, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Jealousy, M/M, cooking together
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-22
Updated: 2014-07-22
Packaged: 2018-02-09 23:52:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2002806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SamanthaLenore/pseuds/sussexbound
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Are you actually doing anything?”</p><p>Sherlock scowls.  “What?”</p><p>“Are you busy?  Because if not, I could use your help peeling potatoes.”</p><p>“I’m not eating what you’re making.  Why should I peel the potatoes?”</p><p>John just shakes his head.  “Because it might be a polite and thoughtful thing to do for the person who loves you.  Just a tip.”</p><p>Oh…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Interlude

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks again to everyone who is reading this series!
> 
> This story can be read on it's own but it will make much more sense in the context of the whole "The Homecoming" series.

“Pick one.”

“What?”  John is sitting in his chair by the hearth.  He looks up from a day-old copy of _The Guardian_.

“A case.  You said you wanted more cases, and it’s been ages.  Pick one.”

“Why me?”

“Why not?”

John stares at the laptop Sherlock is shoving toward him.  “What if what I pick is boring?”

“It won’t be.”

John’s brows knit, but his mouth twitches in an almost smile.  “Quite the confidence in my cleverness you’ve suddenly developed.”

“No.  You’ve always been clever.  Just pick something.”

“Sorry?”  John is smiling in earnest now.  “What was that?”

Sherlock scowls.  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m waiting…”  John crosses his arms across his chest and gazes up at Sherlock from beneath his lashes.

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes toward the heavens with a small huff.  “Ridiculous.”  He repeats for good measure.  “You’re clever.  You’ve always been clever.  I’ve always thought so.  Now pick a case.”

John’s smile shifts ever so slightly.  There is a hint of something deliciously promising in it.  “That’s better.”  He winks and takes the laptop from Sherlock’s hands.

Sherlock feels the tips of his ears grow hot.

John takes a moment or two to scan through the list of cases in Sherlock’s inbox.  “What about this one?”  He hands the computer back, and taps the screen to indicate the third email down in his inbox.

“Simple homicide.  The mother-in-law did it.  Not worth our time.”

“You told me to pick!”

“Well you did, and I’ve just solved it.  Pick another.”  Sherlock hands the laptop back to John.

John sighs, but takes the computer from his hands and peruses the list again.  After a moment or so.  “This one.  Double homicide.  Bodies found in an unused coach house on the property of a large estate…”

“Boring.”

“Then you pick one!”

“No, John.  I said you should pick.  You’ve already managed to point out the two most mediocre cases.  So, you’re well on your way.  Off you go.”

John glares.  He clenches his jaw, swallows tightly.  “Fine.  This one:  nanny.  Took a job caring for one child.  Salary is…”  John cocks a brow.  “Ridiculously exorbitant.  Expectations of her employer are—really peculiar.  She says they required her to cut her hair, wear specific clothing.”  John is frowning as his eyes scan through the details.  “Yeah—yeah this is just—odd, Sherlock.”

“Let me see.”  Sherlock holds out his hand and John passes the laptop back to him.  The situation _is_ peculiar.  The case interesting.  Their client, who has included a photo of herself and her small charge in front of her employer’s home, is exceptionally pretty.  

_Obvious why John’s eyes were drawn to this case, then…_

“Hmph…”

“It’s intriguing.  You can’t deny it.”

Sherlock is exceedingly irritated because he cannot.

“Yes, yes.”

“Well then…?”

“Yes, fine.  Call Miss Hunter and tell her to come down tomorrow if she can.  Let’s see what she reveals in person.”

Sherlock retreats to the kitchen.  His mood has taken a decided dip.  He has a cancerous lung in the fridge he could dissect.  And there is the…

He hears John ring Violet Hunter.  Hears him ask a few minor questions, confirm that she cannot come down until Saturday.  Fine.  Unfortunate and irksome.  Can’t be helped.  

John’s tone is sympathetic, exceedingly friendly.  It is the tone he uses for clients, more specifically for female clients.  Sherlock suddenly wants to go out.  

No.  Not out.  

Noise.  People.  Evening traffic.  

No.  Not out then.  Just away.  Away from the flat.  Away from John and the way his voice softens in sincere concern as Miss Hunter tells her story.

“What are you doing?”  John’s voice at his shoulder.  

Sherlock spins around.  “Nothing.”

“Yeah, that’s kind of my point.  You’re just standing here.  Looking for something?”

“Bored.”

“Dinner?”

“No.”

“Film night?”

“No.”

“Board games?”

“No!”  Sherlock huffs in frustration.

“Mmm…  Bed?”  John’s mouth quirks suggestively.

Sherlock just feels cold.  “No, John.”

John blinks.  His tone is flat when he finally replies.  “Fine.  What then?”

“Don’t know.”

“Well, I can’t help you there.  I’m all out of ideas.”

Sherlock plops down at the kitchen table and pokes a scalpel at the reddish brown crust dried to the bottom of the nearest petrie dish.  

John opens the fridge and stares at it’s contents as though the bits and bobs of expiring food might somehow magically transform into something edible.

“She’s very pretty.”

“Hmm?”  John pulls out a plastic container, peels back the lid, grimaces and then walks over and bins the entire thing.

“Miss Hunter.  Very attractive.”

“Is she?”  John is back searching the contents of the fridge again.  “Here, do you think Mrs. Hudson’s got some lamb?”

Sherlock blinks.  “What?”

“We have potatoes, carrots, and we have peas.  I could make Shepherd’s Pie.”

“Why?”

“For dinner.”

“I said I didn’t want dinner.”

“Yeah, well you’re not the only one who needs to eat around here, you know.  Besides it will keep a couple of days in the fridge and we can have leftovers.”

“I don’t know.”

“What?”

“Mrs. Hudson.  I don’t know if she will have lamb.  Ask her.”  Sherlock is exceptionally terse.

John just stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head and heads downstairs.

Sherlock returns to the sitting room, and flops into his chair, scooping up his laptop off the floor.  He stares at Violet Hunter and her freshly shorn auburn curls—petite, slight, soft smattering of freckles over her nose, keen grey eyes, all set in a combination that translates into almost perfect beauty.  She is gamine, and bright, and lovely.  Charming.

“We’re in luck.  She had some.”

Sherlock closes out the email and opens an internet browser, navigates to BBC Breaking News.  Best to look legitimately engaged.

“Are you actually doing anything?”

Sherlock scowls.  “What?”

“Are you busy?  Because if not, I could use your help peeling potatoes.”

“I’m not eating what you’re making.  Why should I peel the potatoes?”

John just shakes his head.  “Because it might be a polite and thoughtful thing to do for the person who loves you.  Just a tip.”

_Oh…_

Sherlock get’s up, joins John at the sink.  John passes him a peeler and half of the potatoes he’s set aside for his meal.  

“Thanks.”

Sherlock just nods, peels.

“Before—you were saying, about Violet Hunter.  Pretty you said?”

“Mmm…”  Sherlock focusses on the potato in his hand.  Many eyes.  Barely edible.  He hands it to John.  “This one’s no good.  It will be bitter.  Give me another.”

John hands him a new potato.  “Not really my type.”

“What?”

“Violet Hunter.  Not my type.”

“Oh.”

Sherlock peels three more potatoes in silence.  “And your type is?”

John’s hand halts briefly, then resumes peeling.  His voice is fond when he replies.  “Tall.  Fair.  Blue eyes.  Brunette.  Bloody brilliant…”

“Don’t be ridiculous John, none of your girlfriends fit that description.  Well Jeanette might have had the tall and brunette bit down.  But brilliant?  That would be a stretch, and…”

“Hey.”  John has stopped peeling.  Sherlock looks over.  John is smiling, but his eyes…  “I’m talking about you, you great git.  You.  You’re my type.”

“Oh.”

John takes the potato and peeler from his hand, sets them in the sink, reaches up, hand around the back of his neck, gets on the tips of his toes and kisses Sherlock, slow and deep until all Sherlock can think about is the warmth infusing every cell of his body.

When he finally pulls away Sherlock is heady.  John smiles.  “I’m with you because I want to be.  I’m here and I’m staying.  That was a promise, Sherlock, and one I take very seriously.”

“She’s pretty,” is all Sherlock manages.  It sounds small, and vulnerable.  It’s embarrassing.

“Maybe.  But it doesn’t matter.  I don’t love her.  Jesus Sherlock, I don’t even know her.  And, if you don’t want to take this case then just tell me.  I’ll call her back.  I’ll tell her that…”

“No.  It’s an interesting case.  Strange.  She may be in some danger, actually.  It’s fine.  The case is fine.”

“You sure?”

Sherlock feels ashamed of himself.  “Yes.”

John goes back to peeling the potatoes.  “Are you really not going to help me eat this.  I know it’s your favorite.”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Good.  I have wine.  Pinot noir.” 

“When did you get that?”

“On the way home from the bank yesterday.”

“Hmm…”

Sherlock finishes with the potatoes.  John hands him a handful of carrots.  “John, I um…”

John starts to cut the potatoes in quarters and drops them into the pot of water on the counter.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine.  Can you pass me some of those carrots?”

Sherlock does.

“I am.  I’m sorry.”

“I know.  It’s fine.  You just have to stop, okay.  I’m here because there is no place I would rather be.”

“Why?”

“Because I love you.”

John says it so easily.  Sherlock never would have guessed that of him.  He had never heard him say the words to any of his girlfriends.  He had said it to Mary before—before everything, but Mary was his wife.

“Why?”  It’s out before he catches himself.

John sets the carrot peeler down.  “What do you mean?”

“Nothing.”

“No.  What do you mean, _Why_?”

Sherlock just shakes his head.

“Sherlock.”  This in the tone that brooks no refusal.

“ _Why?  Why_ do you love me?”

John is quiet.  Finally - “Why?”

Sherlock says nothing.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

Sherlock only shrugs.

“Because I—I do.  Because you’re—you’re you, and what you are is brilliant, amazing, the best thing to ever happen to me.  You’re everything I need.  You’re everything I want.”

Sherlock’s just staring now.  He’s looking at the way John’s lips form around these words.  The color of them, not pink, not red, a kind of muted mauve.  They are slightly chapped.  Too much kissing.  His eyes.  Dark.  Desire as well as love there.  But searching.  Searching Sherlock for…

“You okay?”

“Yes, I umm—yes.  Me too.”

John’s mouth quirks into a smile.  “Good.  Then can we finish this Shepherd’s Pie?  I’m starving.”

Sherlock nods. 

“You’ll eat then?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”  John’s hand brushes against his as he reaches over to take the peeled carrots.  The touch is too lingering to be an accident.  “You need to get out now.”

“What?”

John holds up an onion.  “Your eyes.”

“Oh.”

“Yup.  Out.”

And Sherlock does.  He goes back to pretending to read the news in the next room, but he watches John cut the onions, watches him combine ingredients, sauté the lamb, boil the potatoes, mash them.

He opens the wine, uses a little to deglaze the pan, pours two glasses, brings Sherlock one, carding his fingers briefly through his curls before returning to the kitchen.  The whole flat smells wonderful.  Sherlock is suddenly starving.

When John finally puts the meal in the oven to bake, he joins Sherlock in the sitting room, glass of wine in hand, and sinks into his chair.  He takes a sip and sets it on the small table beside him before picking up the novel sitting there and beginning to read.  

Sherlock observes him at small intervals, when he thinks he can get away with it.  

He looks at the way the lines around John’s eyes crinkle as he squints a little at the book in front of him.  He needs glasses, but he refuses to accept defeat  He’ll probably go to the point of near blindness before he finally gets fitted.  It’s a rare spot of vanity, and Sherlock finds it curious and somehow endearing.

John is wearing the fitted plaid button-down and the burgundy cardigan.  He is wearing the extra soft chinos.  His lips are stained dark plum in the center from the wine.  He’s shaved quite recently, so he is anticipating the possibility of kissing or possibly more.  

Did he dress in these particular items on purpose?  Has he actually noticed that they are Sherlock’s particular favorites?  His hair looks freshly washed as well.  No product.  Soft.  So soft.  Just the way Sherlock prefers.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s eyes snap up from John’s lap.  “Hmm?”

“You okay?  You’re awfully quiet.”

“You were reading.  I didn’t want to bother you.”

“No bother.”  John smiles - warm, open.  It’s almost an invitation.  Sherlock longs to get up and crawl into his lap, but he’s more than aware how absurd that would be.  He doesn’t.

The kitchen timer chooses that moment to go off.  John gets up, serves up two portions and brings them into the sitting room.  

“That kitchen table needs to be sanitized again.  How long has it been since you did it last?”

Sherlock shrugs, but joins John at the desk where he’s set the two plates after clearing away a couple of laptops and stacks of magazines.

They eat in comfortable silence.  The shepherd’s pie is exceptional.  It really is one of John’s best dishes. 

When he is finished, John leans back with a sigh, hands resting on his stomach.  He nods toward Sherlock’s nearly clean plate.  “See.  You were hungry.”

“So it seems.”  Sherlock pushes his plate away, and takes a sip of wine.  “That case: the Hunter girl.”

“Mmm.”

“Are you sure about it?  It is very odd.  Could be dangerous.”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

“True.”

John looks down, away.  “Listen, if you—if you’re worried about me having…”  He looks up again.  “I know my limits, Sherlock.  I promise you I’ll decline a case if I feel it’s going to trigger anything.  I don’t enjoy what’s been happening to me any more than you do.”

Sherlock nods.  “Alright.”  

Silence reigns for a few minutes.  The distant rumble of thunder cuts through the late evening traffic noise outside.  

Sherlock takes a deep breath.  “John.”

John looks up from the magazine he started flipping through at some point.  “Hmm?”

“Do you think that—do you think that Ella could help at all?”

A muscle in John’s jaw twitches.  He shifts in his seat.  “No.”

“John…”

“I said, no.  I’ve been seeing her since before we met, and it’s always the same advice.  Coping strategies.  It won’t go away, she says.  Not fully.  Stress, new traumas make it worse.  That is what this is, I think.  

“I said when I moved back here that I needed things to be easier.  They have been.  They’ve been—well, they’ve been spectacular to be perfectly honest.”  John smiles.  “Thanks to you.  So, let’s just—let’s just keep on as we are, and see where we end up, yeah?”

Sherlock nods.  “If that’s what you want.”

“It is.”

“Alright.”

“And I promise, Sherlock.  I promise I’ll not push things.  I’ll gauge where I’m at and I’ll let you know if I need to bow out, okay?”

Sherlock nods.  John means it.  Of course he does.  But John is notorious for getting caught up in the excitement of the moment, especially on cases. 

“You don’t believe me?”

“No—I mean, yes.  I mean—I just know that you can get swept along.  You can be off and running without a second thought, especially if you think…”  Sherlock swallows and looks down at the scratched surface of the desk.

“If I think…?”

“Especially if you feel that I’m in danger in some way.”

John’s eyes flit away from his.  His hand slides across the desk top, fingers entwining with Sherlocks.  “Yes.  That’s true.”  Voice hushed.

“You don’t deny it then?”

John looks up, away from their enmeshed fingers.  “No.  No, I don’t.  But, I guess that just means that you’ll have to be extra careful not to endanger yourself.”

Sherlock nods.  But, he mustn’t look too convincing.  John’s mouth twitches at the corners.

“If you are even capable of that.”  John adds, the smile breaking free.  

“I am.”

“You sure.”  John chuckles at this.  He gets up from his chair and stacks their dirty plates.

“Cases sometimes call for sudden decisions, extreme measures.  You know I would never purposefully…”

“Hey…”   John sets the plates down and walks between the V of Sherlock’s legs, pulling his head against his ribs.  “I was just teasing.  Cases are dangerous.  That’s the nature of them.”  Fingers stroke soothingly through Sherlock’s hair.  His eyes slide shut.  “But, you try to take care when you can, and so will I.  I…”  John’s arms slide around Sherlock’s shoulders, tighten; his voice suddenly husky with emotion again.  “I just can’t lose you again, okay…  I can’t.” 

Sherlock hugs the backs of John’s legs and nods against him.  “I know.”

John’s chest rises and falls, too fast, too quick.  

“I’ll always be here, John.”

“Okay.”  John sounds small, lost.  But, there is relief in his tone, too.  He believes him, and that is something.  That small bit of trust is a start.

It begins to rain—softly at first and then with more force.  “A storm’s coming.” John murmurs.

“Yes.”

“I’ll sleep in your room tonight, if that’s alright.”

“Always.”  Sherlock looks up. 

John gazes down at him, sweeps the hair away from his forehead.  “Can we go to bed?”

Sherlock nods.  “Yes.  Let’s.”

 

 


End file.
